The Quill
by Julika Novalis
Summary: --COMPLETE-- Quite autobiographical! In the holidays before his 6th year, Harry discovers something that will change his way of coping with Sirius' death... R for depressing stuff. Contains self-injury. Also available in German ("Die Feder")
1. Chapter One

Chapter One  
  
„Harry, come _on_!"Ron urged. They were in Diagon Alley, buying their new school things. Ron and Hermione were in the lead, heading for Flourish & Blott's. Harry stumbled behind them, hardly noticing the chattering crowd around him and not even taking a look into the window of _Quality Quidditch Supplies_, where a new broomstick called Thunderbolt lay magnificent and gleaming on a pillow.  
  
He hadn't been the same ever since Sirius' death. There were times when he wished he could just lay down and die. After a few weeks at the Dursleys, he had been allowed to stay at The Burrow for the rest of the holidays. Harry had been stunned that the Dursleys let him go that easily. They had wanted to go on holiday, and of course they hadn't wanted Harry with them, and obviously they couldn't have left Harry in their house on his own. Mrs. Figg had also refused to take him, she had said he was too much of a burden to her. The Dursleys, of course, had fully appreciated her opinion, and so they had grumpily agreed on letting him go to the Weasleys. But for the first time in his life, Harry wasn't happy about that. At Privet Drive, he had at least been left alone, but now Mrs. Weasley kept fussing about him, urging him to eat when he really didn't feel like it and coming to Ron's room when he sat there crying over Sirius. She always wanted to consolate him and the twins tried to cheer him up by apparating from one corner of the room to another or stuffing the garden gnomes into the clothes of Ginny's old dolls. Mr. Weasley kept bombarding him with questions about Muggles, but Harrys answers were always short and didn't satisfy Mr. Weasley at all.  
  
Someone to his left was saying, "I'd like to see that big, ugly face of his when he finds out!" It sounded only too familiar. With his next step, Harry bumped into the Ron's and Hermione's backs, who had stopped to look back at the speaker. Harry turned around, too, and saw a bright blond head bobbing away in the crowd, flanked by two heads the size of water-melons and a good foot above the first. It was Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.  
  
"Did he just talk about Hagrid?" said Hermoine, the eyes full of suppressed anger as she stared after Malfoy.  
  
"Probably," replied Ron, "who else has a 'big, ugly face' according to him?"  
  
"I'd really like to find out what he's up to," said Hermione, taking a step after Malfoy. "Let's follow him, Ron, Harry, okay? I hope it's something illegal, I'd love to turn him in for something..."  
  
They turned around and followed their enemies. It was not too hard, because of Malfoys bright head and because Crabbe and Goyle were so big. Slowly, the crowd thinned, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were able to move a little closer. When Malfoy and his friends went around a corner, Ron and Hermione stopped dead. Again, Harry bumped into their backs. "What's the matter?" he asked after he had straightened his glasses.  
  
"Knockturn Alley," said Ron, pointing at a wooden sign on a wall. "I'm not supposed to go there..."  
  
"Neither am I," Hermione added, "ever since you got lost there before or second year."  
  
Malfoys head rounded another corner. "I'll do it," said Harry, "nobody would care less than the Dursleys." And he set off, followed by the nervous glances of Ron and Hermione.  
  
The shops in Knockturn Alley were shabbier and far more frightening than the shops in Diagon Alley, and also the customers didn't seem friendly anymore, but threatening. Many of them wore hoods and didn't show their faces.  
  
After Harry had turned the corner, he saw Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle again in the distance. They were standing in front of a shop window, then they entered the shop. As Harry moved closer, he saw that it was Borgin & Burkes, the same shop where he had accidentally arrived when he had used Floo Powder for the first time. He moved to the opposite shop, pretending to be interested in the shop window, and waited for the three Slytherins to come out again.  
  
The shop seemed to be a stationer's. There were several notebooks lying on torn black velvet in the window. Some of them had fangs or tentacles on them. There were also many quills, even one that looked as if it came from a hippogriff, and ink in every imaginable colour and function. Invisible, poisonous, auto-cursing... One quill drew Harry's attention: It was long, thin and black and had an unusually sharp point. It was painfully familiar... Professor Umbridge owned one of these quills, and she had used it in detentions. Harry knew very well how it worked, for he had experienced it more than once in his fifth year.  
  
He hesitated. He recalled the feeling of the sharp quill slicing open his hand... It had been painful, but also oddly relieving. He lay his hand on the door-handle, took one deep breath and pushed the door open.  
  
Inside, dust began to tickle his nose. It was quite dark, and Harry could make out towering black shelves in the back of the shop.  
  
"Ah-_choo_!" Harry sneezed. One second later, a tall man was standing before him, eyeing him suspiciously.  
  
Harry hastily flattened his fringe over his scar. Better not let the news spread that Harry Potter had been seen in a shop in Knockturn Alley...  
  
"Er... hi," he said awkwardly, "I'd like that black quill from the window, please."  
  
The man chuckled. "Ah, very well, very well... I suppose you want to give it to some little _friend _of yours?" He went to the window.  
  
"Er... yes." Harry tried an evil grin, but failed.  
  
The man returned with the quill and went to his desk, where he put it into a long black box. "You know how it works, I expect?"  
  
"Oh, yes, I do."  
  
"One Galleon and nine Sickles."  
  
Harry pulled some wizard money out of his bag and handed it to the tall man. He noticed his long fingernails, which were filed pointy. Harry stuffed the box under his jacket.  
  
When he left the shop, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be seen, but Harry didn't bother. He pressed the black box excitedly to his side while he made his way back to Diagon Alley.  
  
Hermione and Ron where still there, sitting on a low wall in front of a small shop which sold potion supplies. When they saw him coming out of Knockturn Alley, they jumped to their feet.  
  
"Harry, where have you _been_?" squeaked Hermione, ran to him and flung her arms around him. "We were so worried... Oh, _Harry_!"  
  
Ron was standing rather awkwardly behind Hermoine. "What about Malfoy?" he asked.  
  
"Lost 'em," Harry muttered. He was keen on coming back to The Burrow. "Let's get our books then, shall we?"  
  
Ron and Hermione agreed, and so they set off for Flourish & Blotts. 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
  
Harry came stumbling out of the fire. Fred and George were already there, their pockets full of things from their own joke shop. Harry, Ron and Hermione hadn't been there, but the twins had insisted on showing them their latest inventions.  
  
When they sat at dinner later, Mrs. Weasley kept urging Harry to eat. "Harry, dear, you didn't eat anything since breakfast! Come on, I'll cut your steak for you..."  
  
"Aw, Mum, stop _pampering _him," Ron said in a disgusted voice.  
  
"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, it tastes wonderful, but I'm just so tired," Harry said, forcing a yawn.  
  
Mrs. Weasley looked searchingly into his eyes. "It's only half past seven! You aren't going to be ill, are you?"  
  
"No, no, I'm fine," he said hastily.  
  
"Well then, go upstairs and lie down. I'll check on you later, allright?"  
  
"Oh, no, please, I... I have a light sleep, you know..."  
  
"Okay, my dear," Mrs. Weasley said, patting his cheek, "good night."  
  
"Good night." He stood up and went up the crooked stairs to Ron's room.  
  
He shut the door behind him and collapsed right onto the floor. This had been such an exhausting day, keeping his face up at all times, no opportunity to be on his own... He felt the weight in his stomach. It seemed to have swollen, it was rising up his throat and taking his breath away. He crawled to his trunk and pulled a roll of parchment out of it. He flattened it and took his new quill. He looked down at his right hand.  
  
_I must not tell lies.  
  
_The words were still visible, though only at a very close look. He bent over the parchment, set the sharp point of the quill on the parchment and wrote: _I must not act the hero_. At once, the back of his right hand broke open again and the words appeared on the parchment, written in his own blood, and on his skin. One second later, the cut had healed again. _I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero_. Blood started trickling down his wrist. _I must not act the hero_. Never would he have thought that Umbridge would have such an effect on him. _I must not act the hero_. It felt good. _I must not act the hero_. He heard clattering from dinner downstairs while he sat in his best friend's room, slicing open his own hand. _I must not act the hero_. He hoped nobody would come to check on him... _I must not act the hero.  
_  
He stopped. His hand was now furiously red, but quite smooth. He was dissatisfied. He wanted it to be seen, he wanted that his outside reflected his insides. He couldn't bear to look like he ever did, when his heart and soul were so terribly destroyed. He wanted to feel pain, he wanted to punish himself for what he had done, and he wanted to bring some of his feelings to the outside. But his inner wounds wouldn't heal as fast or as good as those on the back of his hand did...  
  
He rolled up his sleeve, then he lifted the quill once more an set it on his left arm. _I must not act the hero. _He let out a gasp. It hurt much more than it did when he wrote on parchment. The cut was deeper, and it lasted at least half a minute until it had healed. _I must not act the hero_. He cut it delicately into his skin, feeling every word. _I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero. _He stabbed it almost furiously into his arm, deepening the wounds with every cut. _I must not act the hero. _The blood was running down his arm and dropping on his trousers. He pulled out a handkerchief and lay it on his lap. _I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero. _If anybody'd see me like this, he thought, they'd think I had serious problems. No. Don't think 'serious'. It sounds like 'Sirius'... Yes, I have Sirius-problems... He felt his eyes fill with tears. _I must not act the hero. _He contorted his face with pain and suppressed a sob. _I must not act the hero. _Through his blinding tears he saw his blurred arm becoming redder and redder with blood. _I must not act the hero. _His hand was writing almost on its own. _I must not act the hero_. He missed his parents harder than ever. If they were still alive, they would surely have come to him, taken him into their arms and told him he had done nothing wrong... Tears fell onto his cut-open arm and the wounds started stinging even more.  
  
The sound of chairs scraping over the kitchen floor brought him back to his senses. Panicking, he sprang to his feet an wiped his eyes with his right hand. He looked down at his arm. Shining red and clearly visible were the words I must not act the hero carved into his skin. He picked up his handkerchief and dabbed at his wounds. He was satisfied for now. He opened the door, looked carefully around, crossed the corridor on tiptoe and entered the small bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was pale and his eyes were very red from crying.  
  
"You look terrible, dear," said the mirror in a matter-of-fact tone.  
  
"Yeah, I know," Harry replied and bent down to nurse his arm.  
  
When he came back to Ron's room, Ron was already there, sitting on his bed. "Hey Harry, I thought you wanted to sleep?" he asked, a look of concern on his face.  
  
"Couldn't", Harry said, not meeting Ron's eyes. He went to his bed, sat down and started changing. All the time he hid his bruised arm from Ron, who was looking at him suspiciously. Fortunately the sleeves of his pyjama were long.  
  
Finally they both lay down and the light went out on its own. Lying in the dark, Harry could hear the twins rumbling overhead and the sound of music from the room next door. He knew that Ginny was a great musical-lover, and he tried to make out what she was hearing. He didn't know the song, but he assumed it must be from Les Misérables, Ginny's favourite musical.  
  
_...Without me this world would go on turning  
The world is full of happiness that I have never known...  
  
_These lyrics were boring right into his heart. Yes, what would it matter if he wasn't there? He had no family that would mourn over him, no godfather... It was true, he had never known the happiness of having a loving family, parents who cared for him above all others, like Ron and Hermione had. Of course, Ron had to share the love of his parents with his six siblings, but Mr. And Mrs. Weasley had so much love to give that it was enough for all of them. They even gave some of their love to him, Harry, and he was very grateful that had experienced such a close thing to parental love this way he since his own parents had died. 


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The following morning passed in a rush. It was the first of september and they were going back to Hogwarts. Harry didn't want to go there, all and everything in the castle would remind him of the previous year, which had been so terrible for him. He also dreaded the fresh rumours that he was sure had spread over the holidays about their nocturnal flight to London and that he had again escaped from Voldemort. Every head would turn around to him and they would whisper behind his back...

As he, Ron and Hermione mounted the train, they had to fight their way to an empty compartment. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm and dragged him behind her.

"Ow!" he cried as she touched his wounds through his sleeve, "let go, Hermione!"

She turned around and frowned. "What's the matter with your arm? I didn't squeeze very hard, I'm sure."

"Er... yes, you did," Harry said. "Come on now, Ron's ahead," he added, dragging his trunk past Hermione, who was still frowning after him.

In the compartment Harry sat in a corner next to the window. Rain was splattering against the glass, reflecting his mood. Ron and Hermione sat down, too, exchanging a worried look.

"Harry..." Hermione began, "We know how you're feeling, we miss Sirius, too! Of course he was your godfather and all that, but I think you should cheer up a bit."

"Oh yeah?" Harry turned away from the window. "Did _you_ also fall for Voldemorts stinking trick though you should have known better, and is somebody dead because of your ignorance?"

"Harry! It's not your fault! You told us what Dumbledore said, that he should have told you that V-Voldemort might try to lure you to the Department of Mysteries! You didn't know, you've done nothing wrong!"

"Yes, I did, I took Kreacher seriously, I didn't call for Sirius, and I didn't use the magic mirror he gave me in case I ever needed him. If I'd only thought! It would've been so easy not to make this horrible fucking mistake!" Harry was on his feet now, shouting at Hermione, who was backing away. But then he felt tears rise in his throat, and he turned away, flinging himself in the seat again and stared blinkingly out of the rain-streaked window.

"Oh Harry..." Hermione whispered, sitting next to him and putting her arm around his shoulders. When she tightened her grip, Harry winced. "What's up?" she asked, letting him go. She looked down at his arm, which he had seized instinctively with his right hand. "Harry! Please tell me you didn't do what I think you did!" she cried, sounding horrorstruck.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said in a high-pitched voice.

Ron, who had sat awkwardly on the opposite seat, got up with wide eyes and crouched on the ground before Harry. "No, Harry, no, you can't have..." he said in a terrified whisper.

"Let me alone," Harry croaked, tears now running down his cheeks. He tried to mop his eyes with the sleeve of his cloak, but Hermione seized his arm gently and pulled back the material. Harry turned his face away from them and closed his eyes. He heard two gasps, then Hermione burst into tears.

"Harry, no!" she sobbed. "Just because I said you have sort of a saving-people-thing, you carve it right into your arm! Oh Harry, if I'd _known_..."

Ron seemed to have gone speechless. He had got up from the ground and sunken into his seat. He was ashen-faced. Hermione had her face in her hands, crying helplessly.

Harry covered his wounds again. He didn't know what to do or say, so he stared at his shoes.

After a while, Ron croaked: "How... how did you do it?"

Harry gulped. "Remember last year, when Umbridge made me write – those very special lines? I discovered a quill just like hers in Knockturn Alley. Something drew me to buy it..."

Hermione looked up with puffy red eyes. "So you did it – yesterday?" she whispered, "when we were still at dinner?"

Harry nodded. Ron looked as though he was going to be sick.

The remaining time until they reached Hogsmeade Station they didn't talk anymore. When the witch with the food-trolley arrived, nobody of them felt like eating.

As they finally filed into the Great Hall, Ron moaned with hunger and Hermione had her hand pressed against her stomach to stop it from rumbling. Harry hadn't eaten properly for several days now, so his stomach had become used to getting no food and Harry didn't feel hungry anymore.

After the feast (Harry had only eaten a bit of bread) they wanted to go up to their dormitories, because they all felt exhausted. Just before they reached the door, Harry felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He turned around. It was Dumbledore, who looked at him over his half-moon glasses.

"Harry. I'd like a quick word, if you don't mind – up in my office."

Harry felt uncomfortable. He cast a nervous glance at Ron and Hermione, who shrugged, then he followed the Headmaster.

When they entered the office, Harry saw a tiny Fawkes sitting in his cage. He had obviously just risen from the ashes and he had only a few short red feathers.

"Hello, Fawkes," Harry said as he went passed by.

Dumbledore went around his desk, but instead of sitting down he pulled his chair to the front and sat on it. "Please sit down," he said to Harry, indicating the other chair. Harry sat.

"Did you have a good holiday?" Dumbledore asked in a fatherly tone.

"Er..." said Harry. He had spent his holidays mourning Sirius, bathing in self-accusations and finally cutting himself. How much of this could he tell Dumbledore without making him think he was having a mental break-down?

Dumbledore looked at him searchingly. "Well?" he asked finally, "is there anything you want to tell me?"

Harry felt himself blushing. He just couldn't tell him how much he hated himself, and what he had done as a result...

Dumbledore leaned forward and placed his hand very gently on Harry's arm. "Harry – you'd better not keep those scars."

Harry stared. "How... how do you know...?" he spluttered.

"I have my ways of knowing," he said, smiling wisely at him. "I don't usually approve healing scars, but this time... You know what I said about the scar on your forehead, that Voldemort transferred some of his powers to you, and that there is an emotional connection between you and him?"

Harry nodded, wondering what Dumbledore was playing at.

"By doing this to yourself," he continued, "you have carved your own pain into your skin, so there is a connection between you and yourself. Every time you feel pain in future, your scars will hurt and cause you even more pain. It's a cycle of pain. You would never be able to feel cheerful again. So would you mind if I heal your wounds?"

Harry sat there, not knowing what to say. As if he could ever be cheerful again, knowing that his godfather was dead because of him! The scars would remind him of Sirius, and never, _never_ doing a mistake like this again, so in a way he wanted to keep them. But on the other hand, what Dumbledore was saying sounded awful...

"Stretch out your arm," Dumbledore said calmly.

Harry hesitated. He looked up to the crinkled, kind face of his Headmaster and into those astonishingly blue eyes, which looked so sad. Then he lifted his arm to him and pulled back his sleeve. The words were still furiously red and clearly readable. _I must not act the hero_.

Dumbledore took Harry's arm and sighed. "Oh Harry. I wish I could do something to make you feel better. I already told you that it was mainly my mistake, but I can't force you to see it this way. It will take time. But to make it possible, I have to heal your wounds." He took his wand and tapped Harry's arm very gently. The words became fainter, the stinging subsided. After a few seconds, his skin was as smooth and undamaged as it had ever been.

"Thank you," Harry muttered as he covered his arm again.

"Please, Harry – promise that you won't do it again, will you?" Dumbledore looked at him and his eyes seemed to be shimmering strangely.

"Yes. I promise," Harry said after a moment. It would be hard not to do it again. But Sirius wouldn't have liked it when his godson destroyed himself in grief... He looked at Dumbledore again and saw him smiling.

When he left the Headmaster's office, he wondered if Dumbledore could read thoughts.

The End


End file.
